


Labour of Love

by Tseecka



Category: Primeval
Genre: Family, Fluff, Hopeful Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 02:49:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1841506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tseecka/pseuds/Tseecka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stephen stared in frustration at the blinking cursor on the screen in front of him. His eyes were dead and unseeing, like they had lost all focus and were drifting elsewhere in a semblance of a dream land. The mug of tea sitting next to his mouse pad had stopped steaming some time ago, and he hadn't bothered to replace it--the caffeine he'd already consumed wasn't really helping, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Labour of Love

Stephen stared in frustration at the blinking cursor on the screen in front of him. His eyes were dead and unseeing, like they had lost all focus and were drifting elsewhere in a semblance of a dream land. The mug of tea sitting next to his mouse pad had stopped steaming some time ago, and he hadn't bothered to replace it--the caffeine he'd already consumed wasn't really helping, either. 

He felt a hand rest heavy and calloused on his bare shoulder, and spared a glance up at Nick. "Having trouble?" the other man asked gently, and Stephen, after a moment's hesitation and a wry look at the desktop, nodded. 

"Nothing sounds right, or feels right. It's like, whatever I write isn't--"

"Isn't enough," Nick finished for him, before the slight growl of frustration that was rumbling in his partner's chest turned into a full-fledged roar and the onset of a mood that would last for hours. Stephen nodded wordlessly, the muscles in his jaw working to keep his composure. Nick could almost see the tempo of Stephen's pulse at his temples. 

"I can't even start it. How do you start a letter like this?" He finally reached out for the tea, and stared at it disbelieving, as though he'd only just forgotten that it was ice cold and bitter. "Damn."

"Give me a try?" Nick asked, jerking his head towards the monitor. "Go watch a game or something on the telly. I'll have a crack at it." 

Stephen wanted to refuse. This was his idea, his brainchild, his doing, and it should have been his chore. Shouldn't have been a chore at all, actually, but that was slowly becoming irrelevant as it became more and more of one. He was the one who'd gotten them into this mess in the first place, and the most difficult task should have been his responsibility, but the idea of hot tea and distance from any computer screen was too tempting. 

The clacking of the keyboard from the office grew more impatient, frenzied, insistent, and the little noises Nick made in frustration were growing more recognizable--and higher rated--by the minute. Stephen clicked the volume control on the remote once more, trying to block it out. He should go back, he knew--it was his job, always should have been, Nick was crazy to try to take it on--but the tea was just so hot and the sofa so very, very comfortable. 

The network logo spun lazily on the screen as they went to commercial, and he closed his eyes, only half paying attention. There was nothing worth seeing on commercial breaks these days. No creativity. Just lame excuses for humour. He didn't have to see them to know he'd hate them. 

His eyes opened wide. Swinging his legs off the cushions, he began digging through the pile of papers and files littering the coffee table for a scrap piece of blank paper, a pen, anything he could write on and with. He ripped the cover page from a student's dissertation, figuring they could reprint one when and if the paper was returned, and he found a pen by lifting the stack of lab reports and shunting the file folder beneath it to the side. He clicked the ball-point in and out a few times, nervous, trying to sort through his thoughts, to arrange them in the right order. 

Then he began to scribble. 

He'd harvested a few more dissertation pages and was working on the third of Nick's notoriously dry pens when said professor joined him, carrying an air of defeat. "You're right, that is hard--" he began, but he trailed off as he saw Stephen, hunched over the coffee table. His shoulders were shaking, one hand propping up his forehead and occasionally wiping at his eyes as his graceful, generous cursive looped shakily across random sheets of paper. He'd slid from the sofa to the floor, and Nick took up a seat behind him. His fingers smoothed over Stephen's hair, along the line of his shoulder, offering comfort and strength as his partner's trembling fingers finally let the pen fall to the table. 

"Did you have any luck?" he finally asked hoarsely, still not looking at Nick. He stared at the loopy scrawl that covered pages scattered to the left and right, his eyes tracking the progress of the thoughts and words over the pages, cataloguing it, reminding himself of their chronology. Nick shook his head. 

"No, you're right. It's a hard task. I take it you had a stroke of inspiration?" Stephen nodded, still mostly wordless. "May I read?" He didn't wait for the nod this time. 

_Dear you,_

_We don't know who you are. We don't know yet where you come from, or what your story is. We don't know why the world has seen fit to put you in your need, or why we have been chosen to be blessed beyond compare by its choice. But we'd like to tell you what you are._

_You are hope. You are a sign that when things go wrong, there can be a light that shines for everyone, anyone. You are the chance for life to be lived in happiness and peace. You are the possibility of the future. You are a piece of the puzzle that makes up this earth, that fits together in the most perfect--absolutely perfect--way to create the next generation of our planet. Of our lives._

_You are joy. You are birthday parties and Christmas trees, wide-eyed wonder and innocence and the unquestioning belief that we have lost. You are photo albums and Father's Day cards, ice cream for good grades and also just because. You are the sun that shines in the morning, that welcomes us with bright and cheery you and makes us thankful and joyful and absolutely, completely happy each and every morning. You are our reason for shared smiles in the night while you sleep, for happiness that you are there, and you are ours, and in you rests a world that we can't wait to explore with you._

_But mostly, you are love._

_You are hugs and kisses, tears and laughter, the overrunning and outpouring of our deepest souls. You are praise and you are pride. You are the only thing that matters. You are something--oh you are something, something beautiful and tremendous and wondrously fantastic--and you are everything._

_We don't know who you are, but we don't have to see you, don't have to know you, don't have to hug you and hold you and take you out for ice cream to know already that we love you._

_We love you._

_And we can't wait to bring you home._

_~_

Nick swallowed as he reached the end of the last page, his hand brushing over Stephen's hair. His fingers were strong, pressing harder than they might have otherwise, and Stephen could feel it. He knew it was because of the tension strung through Nick's body, the absolute will the other man was using in order to check his emotion. He twisted around in his place on the floor and looked up at his partner. 

"I didn't know how to sign it," he admitted finally. Nick just shook his head, tossing the pages onto the coffee table and reaching down to draw Stephen to him. A single sob choked out of his throat, and suddenly he was clutching at Stephen's shoulders as though they were the only things anchoring him in a storm that was threatening to blow him away. 

"I love you," he managed to voice, his face buried in Stephen's neck and feeling the other's warm breath against his own. 

"Love you too," Stephen replied. He pulled away, passing a hand over his face to erase the tears and the trails they left down his cheeks. He smiled tremulously at Nick, thumbed away a tear from that craggy face. "Let's get some sleep, yeah? I can type that up in the morning." They both reflexively glanced at the digital clock sitting atop the set. It was late, or early, depending on how you looked at it. In five hours, they'd have to be awake again, packing the box that would have Stephen's letter on top to be sent off to the agency. 

And in a few short weeks, that letter would bring to them everything it promised. Hope, and joy, and love, and their two would become three. A family.

Quickly, Nick snatched the pen from the table, and scribbled his own untidy addition to the blank space Stephen had left in his uncertainty for how to close it. 

_~ Your family_

Stephen glanced at it, swallowed hard, and nodded in agreement. "Perfect," he said, a smile creasing his features. They kissed each other soundly before their emotions could carry them away again, and, hands entwined, headed upstairs to bed.


End file.
